Love Hatred
by T. Mad Hatter
Summary: She tries to convince herself that she doesn't love him. He's icky, he's loud, and he's British--all things that are namely gross in the Buffy Book of 'Things You Don't Want in an Undead Vampire Type of Guy.'"
1. Loving Hatred

**Story Title:** Love Hatred

**Author:** Hawk Martin

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Buffy, Giles, or Spike…but I wouldn't mind it if I did.  At least the Spike bit…

**Dedication:** To Irish coffee, which inspired me to write this.

**A/N:** All right, this is just a random humor/angst type of thing.  It's set, probably, around the time where Buffy and Spike first start getting…to _know _one another better, if you understand what I mean.  And if you don't, I'm sorry.  Anyway, this is my take on how she felt at the time.  Maybe it's a bit AU, but writing from Buffy's POV is new to me so feedback would be nice.

**Summary:** She tries to convince herself that she doesn't love him. He's icky, he's loud, and he's British--all things that are namely gross in the Buffy Book of 'Things You Don't Want in an Undead Vampire Type of Guy.' 

**Notes:** Italics are sarcasm.  All the rest is blah.

**Rating:** Pg-13 for swearing and sexuality.

**Warning:** If you don't like Spike, and don't like Buffy, or just don't like them together, feel free to read anyway.

_~"My bounty is as boundless as the sea, _

_My love as deep; _

_The more I give to thee, _

_The more I have, _

_For both are infinite."—William Shakespeare~_

She tries to convince herself that she doesn't love him. He's icky, he's loud, and he's British--all things that are namely gross in the Buffy Book of 'Things You Don't Want in an Undead Vampire Type of Guy.' She never really followed her own rules, but now that they can help her pathetically weasel her way out into ignorance, she's going to preach those rules, goddamnit, or her name isn't Buffy the Semi-Perky, Over-Worked, Stupid Vampire-Loving, Vampire Slayer.

She really hates that name.

It's his fault anyway. He's all whiskey this and bloody that. She doesn't like those British curse words--they make her think of soiled furniture every time. Sodding...bugger...she shakes her head. Not that it matters--she still doesn't love him. Nope. Not in the least bit. 

At least, that's what she tells herself.

Then, by the same token, if she does, she's not about to admit it. Hell no, with a resounding sung by a 20-person chorus, complete with matching outfits. She would just love to see Giles face when she'd walk into the shop, all innocently clad in sexy kitten wear, and mumble with that little smile of hers that she's in love with her mortal enemy, and he just happens to be a vampire too. He'd not only have a heart attack, but he'd also have a violent one with a sword nearby, which is never a good thing.

Or maybe he'd just have a mid-life crisis and marry a bunny. Somehow, Buffy likes the second option.

He's not even good-looking, she tells herself. Not Giles, but...him. God. She's so weak now that she can't even bring herself to say his name--hell, even think his name. It's a stupid one, though. Makes her think of bondage freaks with a fetish for pointy objects and possessed forks. Not that he would appreciate that. Probably would just mumble something about bloody "whatever" and move on. And she would sigh, knowing that he was kind of cute when he did this.

Not that she would ever admit it.

He's not cute like how she wants him to be, though. Not the 'Hello Kitty' kind of cute; or the knight in shining armor, all oiled up and ready to go kind either. He's just sort...rough. Like her, she guesses. He never sleeps, and when he does, it's only after sex. He's cruel, and he thinks he knows her. He thinks he loves her. She thinks he does, too.

Buffy hates it, though. She hates those thoughts, the kinds that are more painful than killing and more seductive than sex. Soft skin, the creamy kind that just gleams in the moonlight. She hates it--all of it. She hates him, his accent, and his love. She hates him more than anything.

And she loves him just as much.

It's not fun anymore--the quip retorts; the easy smirk with a gentle flick of a wrist, until they turn into nothing more than ashes and memory. All she is now is blood; the blood of her mother, her sister, herself. Her black secrets are dirty, so dirty that sometimes even scalding droplets of rehabilitation won't save her. Nothing will.

Except, maybe...him.

Spike.

God, how infuriating he is. He's evil. He's that four-letter word that is feared, and hated, but never understood. He's on the dark side, as if there's some thick red border keeping them apart. As if she knows exactly when to stop because someone's telling her; as if she'd listen. But she doesn't. There's no way to keep them apart, because there's no way to keep them together. They just are.

And she hates that, too.

She hates a lot of things lately. She hates more than she loves and she loves how much she hates. Poor, innocent Buffy is growing up, growing perfect, but becoming evil. That's her reasoning for it. She's just confused and grieving--that's what she tells them. That she doesn't love Spike--he's gross and icky and definitely too pale for her taste--but she needs him to unwind. And maybe that makes her sound like a whore, but the truth makes her sound worse--in love.

She's a vampire slayer. She takes her trusty stake and her adorable charm, and she kills people. Just like that. And the only way she can survive through it all is by telling herself that they aren't people...they aren't even real anymore. She tells herself that they deserve it, that they're evil--just like him. And she's different than all of them.

Unfortunately, she never believes herself.

Buffy isn't stupid; she knows she's lying. She's no different from those prowling creatures, no different from those that find comfort in blood. Damn, she loves blood sometimes--it's beautiful, and milky, and a gentle reminder of suffering humanity. She fucking loves that. She loves killing them and she hates herself for always being alive enough to watch it. But she's still the same--vampires and their slayers have to be. After all, how else would she be able to kill them so well?

She wants to kill him too. Every night, after the sex but before she falls asleep. He always go to bed right after--too tired and worn out. Must be a vampire thing. So she just lies next to him, thinking about how much she hates that bastard. And how much she loves him too.

Yeah, she loves him. And maybe she's even ready to tell him. Maybe instead of fucking tonight they'll hold each other; maybe instead of screaming she'll moan his name, like so many time Spike has done for her. And maybe, now that he's entered the room, she'll be honest.

"Spike?"

"Yeah, Buff?"

"I've got something I want to tell you."


	2. Loathing Love

**Story Title:** Loathing Love

**Author:** Hawk Martin

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Buffy, Giles, or Spike…but I wouldn't mind it if I did. At least the Spike bit…

**Dedication:** To Irish whiskey, of which got jealous about the dedication to Irish coffee.

**A/N:** I wasn't originally planning on writing a companion to Love Hatred, but I figured it'd be a bit interesting to hear Spike's POV on Buffy. Make it equal. Plus, I wanted to write in a more sarcastic, bitter tone. So, if I nailed Spike, awesome. But if I didn't…I tried.  Changed the original line using 'wanker' to prat, after a review. 

**Summary:** He thinks she's a bloody prat. She probably doesn't even know what a prat is, which just makes her even more of one. All quip answers this and adorable innocence that--it makes him sick. Always has have to have the last word--it's like a control issue with her. 

**Notes:** Italics are sarcasm—intensely so.

**Rating:** PG-13 for swearing (Brit curse words, more so than American) and sexuality.

**Warning:** The monkeys are coming…the monkeys are coming…

_~"And since you know you cannot see yourself,  
so well as by reflection, I, your glass,  
will modestly discover to yourself,  
that of yourself which you yet know not of."—William Shakespeare~_

He thinks she's a bloody prat. She probably doesn't even know what a prat is, which just makes her even more of one. All quip answers this and adorable innocence that--it makes him sick. Always has have to have the last word--it's like a control issue with her. She's right, he's wrong; she's top, he's bottom.

And it's driving him mad.

It's really all of her fault, anyway. She's the one that comes to his bed every night--not him. Well, all right, he does go to his bed, but he sure as hell doesn't do it after her, and definitely not in black lingerie, just barely hidden by even skimpier clothes. Nope, not him. Of course, that doesn't stop him from glancing over at that black lingerie every once in a while.

But that's not the point.

He used to think that with a swig of whiskey and a long drag of one of his cigarettes, he'd be through with her. He could just think of good ol' Dru--the way she moved, the way she smiled--and not think of the puffter of a Slayer, Miss Buffy-Kick-Your-Arse-And-Have-It-Be-Pleasurable-Too. No--Dru was one for him. She's smooth, graceful. She glided over everything, with those perfect fingernails and small, innocent grin. Even though she was anything but innocent. Dru was everything he needed; so in Hell's name didn't she feel the same way?

Makes his blood hot, sometimes. Well, if he blood that could circulate and all that bit. Which pisses him off too. Being dead pisses him off. He'd give nothing more than just to lie in a coffin and not feel a goddamned thing. Though, Spike thinks coffins are a tad offish. He figures the dead don't mind; but he would. Being claustrophobic and all.

She'd probably laugh at that. Would roll her eyes and smirk, obviously amused by his weakness. The Great and Mighty Spike, afraid of small places? Probably say something crude like: how would he be able to fit inside of her, then, without getting a bit nervous? Bitch. He scowls at that. Just thinking about what she could do infuriates him.

...Bitchy bitch.

She's so...she's nice to him. That's what drives him up a wall. That bloody dafter treats him better than Drusilla ever did--ever could. She's nice to him, as if he deserves it. And she just acts like it's only natural, like she should treat all soulful bleached out vamps this way. Even though he knows she'll always love that softie, old Angel more than she could ever love him. It makes him sigh or punch a wall—he hates that bastard. Hates for everything Angel's done to him; everything he didn't do. Always loved to walk away, scot-free, as if by doing so that made him even more of a hero. And he was, _always,_ in her eyes.

He's tempted to just let her go, follow her Prince Charming into the bright horizon, until death do they part. …Well, not death, but in the general sense of apocalyptic kittens and ferocious blood-sucking fiends, and whatnot. But, Spikes supposes, that if they said all that when marrying two lovebirds, the parents—probably bleedin' Catholics—would _have_ a kitten. He'd almost go to the wedding, just to see that.

Sometimes he gets the impression that she's just sticking around to unwind. He knows that she could never truly love her—he's so damn off the deep end, anyway—but...he just wishes that she could find it in her heart to at least _like_ him. Give him something to hold onto, for God's sakes. She comes, late at night when all evil is loose and he's more awake than even the morning's taunting sunlight can pray for, and never says a word. Buffy just…comes. Pulls him close to her, loose fabric barely separating their hot bodies, and she takes control. If he chooses to fight back, that's his right. But she's the one with the power—not him. And she wants to make that very clear to him.

Even when he's inside of her, bodies moving in the same, fast rhythm, she's still the one pushing up against him. She's the one, always. First and always will be. Which is fitting, Spike has decided. She's the first the one he ever really felt…close to, spiritually. Hell, a little while ago he wasn't even sure what that word meant—until now. Now, he wishes that he could sit her down, and tell her what 'spirituality' means to him. He wishes that instead of her always being in control; her always being on top, he could just take that pain from her shoulders and let her forget what power and control and evil even is. But he can't. And he just has to accept that.

Like he just has to accept the fact that she doesn't love him.

He loves her, though. With every dead fiber in his fucking being, he loves her. _He loves her. _He's screamed it, said it, breathed it—everything. She knows how he feels; how could she not? She still comes, doesn't she? Maybe she needs him to love him; maybe she needs someone to be on all hands and fours for her, to prove to her that she's still on top. Because he bets that she's not so sure now. It gives him a flicker of triumph, a little ray of pride when he thinks of how she's so unsure of herself. She's broken too.

They're not meant for one another—he won't lie to himself. The whole concept of 'soul mates' is rubbish, really, and he's seen it first hand a thousand and more times. No—he knows that in the end, she'll move on and he'll stay the same, as he has done his entire…death. But then, he always knows he'll never find anyone like her again. He probably won't ever feel this way either—like a true man, even if he's not. She's the only one that could ever do, and she's the only one that ever will.

He doesn't hate her, not like he wants to. He doesn't hate that he loves her either, even though he could. He hates himself, hates that he's capable of love in general. He hates the slim arch of her neck, the soft determination in her soul. He hates that when night comes and they meet—_mate_—again, he's still the only one doing it for love. 

They aren't soul mates, Spike knows that. But she's the only one he'll ever love as much as he does, and he's the only one she'll ever hate.

"Spike?"

"Yeah, Buff?"

"I've got something I want to tell you."


End file.
